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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648527">On the Symbolism of Serpents and The Disposition of Sofa Cushions</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva'>argyle4eva</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [22]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Sex with Snake Form Crowley (Good Omens), Shapeshifting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:13:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,988</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648527</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After having a bad dream and being comforted by a certain angel, Crowley learns Aziraphale has some very special interests. Crowley isn't quite sure what to make of it all, but slowly finds his peace with the idea.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [22]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Get A Wiggle On Zine</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>On the Symbolism of Serpents and The Disposition of Sofa Cushions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My NSFW contribution to the <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/wiggleonzine">Get a Wiggle On Zine</a>, a snake-Crowley themed collection. Written to stand alone, but also to socket into my "Wise As Serpents" series once the zine embargo was over. I had a wonderful time working with all the talented writers and artists who contributed (check out the collection!), and am honored my content was included with theirs.</p><p>Because I can never resist tying stories together, this contains a brief reference to my SFW Get A Wiggle On story, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648158">"Concerning the Great Serpent Glykon and the Angel Clothed With the Sun."</a></p><p>My computer ate my zine final draft, so any typos or formatting inconsistencies with the text version are things I managed to miss on my re-edit of the next-to-final draft; apologies to the zine's hardworking editors and my original beta, Hats, for any errors that remain.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Crowley liked <span>sleeping</span>, <span>in part</span> because he <span>rarely dreamed.</span> Mostly, sleep was restful oblivion.</p><p class="western">Mostly.</p><p class="western">---</p><p class="western">It was <span>a vague</span> dream, but <span>emotionally</span> intense. <em>They – </em><span>Heaven? Hell? </span><span><span>Both?</span></span><em> –</em> had <span>cornered</span> him. He was outnumbered and in trouble. He wasn’t a fighter, and couldn’t even assume his true form for what help that might be, living as he was within the physical world. The best he could do was go serpentine, and hope scales, speed, and venom would forestall the inevitable outcome a little, for the sake of his pride.</p><p class="western">He bared fangs in defiance, hissed in threat - then an explosion of white light filled his senses.</p><p class="western">“<em>Crowley? Love? Are you all right?”</em></p><p class="western">Dear, blessed Someone, it was the cavalry. Aziraphale. Angel of the Gate and Sword, a heavy hitter by anyone’s standards. His light alone banished the attackers, <span>blasting</span> them away like wisps of paper ash. Crowley flung himself at that glorious promise of safety.</p><p class="western">“<em>Oof! You’re squeezing a bit. Can you ease up? Oh, thank you.” Gentle hands, stroking his coils, soothing. “There, there, that’s better.”</em></p><p class="western">Crowley <span>enfolded</span> Aziraphale, tasting the familiar scent on his tongue, drinking in the <span>warmth</span> and the touch, and, as dreams do, the tone changed in a heartbeat. Crowley’s movements acquired a new purpose.</p><p class="western">“<em>Oh, love. Oh. Oh! </em><span>Well</span><em>, then.” Aziraphale chuckled. “If </em><span>that’s</span><em> how it’s to be, I think this is easier . . .”</em></p><p class="western">Another dream-shift, and, instead of a human body, Crowley <span>twined</span> with another serpent: there were unfamiliar mother-of-pearl scales, but <span>the scent and warmth stayed the same</span>.</p><p class="western">“<em>Yessss, that’ss jussst the thing,”</em> the white serpent sighed, then there was only the slip and slide of <span>gleaming</span> skin, the twist and turn for proper alignment, and a rising glow of fulfillment. Not the mad rush of human sex, but slower and more sensual - every inch of their bodies in contact, sharing every shudder, every vibration.</p><p class="western">When it was over, Crowley slid back into the deep well of dreamless sleep.</p><p class="western">---</p><p class="western">“Mmmmmph.” Crowley stretched luxuriously. Every sensation was amazing: <span>sleek</span> silk pyjamas against his skin, the soft bed, the solid warmth of Aziraphale’s legs against his back . . . huh, that was unusual. Crowley cracked his eyelids and saw daylight filtering through their cottage’s bedroom curtains. He would have expected Aziraphale to <span>be </span>making tea by now.</p><p class="western">“Good morning, love,” Aziraphale said. Crowley squirmed under the covers and rolled to face him. Aziraphale closed his book and <span>stroked</span> Crowley’s back. “Feeling better? I think you had a nightmare, earlier.”</p><p class="western">“M<span>uch</span> better,” Crowley said, grinning. Dreams were weird. He felt sorry for humans, having them all the time. Though he couldn’t complain how the last one had ended. The afterglow felt almost real.</p><p class="western">“That’s good. When you changed back, I assumed it was a positive sign, but figured I’d sit with you to be sure.”</p><p class="western">Crowley froze. “Changed back? Did I . . . change shape?”</p><p class="western">“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Most assuredly.”</p><p class="western">With rising horror, Crowley rifled through his memory again. “Did <em>you</em> change shape? Did we . . .” his morning brain couldn’t come up with the right way to say <em>fuck as snakes</em>.</p><p class="western">Aziraphale looked as appalled as Crowley felt. “Have, er, relations? Of course we did. You weren’t still <em>asleep</em>, were you? You seemed very cognizant.”</p><p class="western">Crowley felt like screaming, in part because Aziraphale had actually used the words <em>have relations</em>, but also because of the now-inescapable fact it <em>hadn’t</em> been all a dream</p><p class="western">“Aziraphale, I’m sorry, I -”</p><p class="western">“Crowley, love, I’m so sorry -” Aziraphale said simultaneously, and they both stopped. “Why are <em>you</em> apologizing?”</p><p class="western">“Dunno, why are <em>you</em>?”</p><p class="western">Aziraphale removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Let’s take this in stages, shall we? You first.”</p><p class="western">“I . . .” Given free reign to talk, Crowley’s tongue <span>momentarily froze</span>. “I never would have done that if I thought it was real,” he said, weakly.</p><p class="western">Aziraphale’s expression was one of blank incomprehension.</p><p class="western">“I turned into an animal and <em>attacked</em> you!”</p><p class="western">“Hardly an attack,” Aziraphale responded. “<em>Sudden</em>, but . . .”</p><p class="western">“I was a snake! I had fangs and scales! I’m venomous!”</p><p class="western">“You weren’t trying to <em>bite</em> me, love,” Aziraphale said, with a wry smile, which vanished as he took in Crowley’s anguished face. “Oh, I <em>am</em> sorry. I should have made certain you were awake. I didn’t mean to take advantage of you.”</p><p class="western">“Take advantage of <em>me</em>?!”</p><p class="western">“Hm.” Aziraphale settled back. “If I have this right, we each feel we took inappropriate liberties. You because you didn’t <span>approve </span>shapechanging with me ahead of time, and me because you weren’t properly awake and couldn’t fully consent. Correct?”</p><p class="western">Crowley buried his face against Aziraphale’s thigh, mortified. Aziraphale’s pedantic phrasing <span>made</span> things even worse. “I guess,” he mumbled.</p><p class="western">“Well, for the record, I don’t feel the slightest bit violated, so no worries there. I hope <em>I </em>can be forgiven . . .?”</p><p class="western">Crowley groaned. “Angel, there’s nothing to forgive.”</p><p class="western">“Oh, that’s such a relief. Next time, we’ll both check first to make sure everything’s properly t<span><span>ickety-boo</span></span>, if there’s any question.”</p><p class="western">Crowley winced, anticipating a future of excruciating, mood-killing conversations, but Aziraphale was right. “Deal.”</p><p class="western">“I’m glad that’s cleared up.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s forehead. “I think I’ll <span>make</span> tea now. Coffee for you?”</p><p class="western">–--</p><p class="western">Crowley was wrong: excruciating conversations about consent were not in his future. What <em>was</em> in his future <span>were</span> excruciating exercises in serpent-positivity.</p><p class="western"><span>T</span>wo days later, Aziraphale was having afternoon tea, and Crowley was lounging in the vicinity, keeping him company.</p><p class="western">Aziraphale set his cup into its saucer with a dainty <em>tink</em>, and said, “You know, love . . .”</p><p class="western">Crowley tensed in premonition.</p><p class="western">Aziraphale cleared his throat. “If you w<span>ant to</span> further explore, erm, new directions. In the bedroom, that is. I would not be opposed.”</p><p class="western">“<span>Involving scales</span>?” Crowley groaned.</p><p class="western">“Er, yes. I found the experience very pleasant. I hope you did, too?” Aziraphale’s expression was wide-eyed and hopeful.</p><p class="western">“Hrrrrgh.” It had been <em>amazing</em>. <span>B</span>ut . . . “Me being a snake, it’s not -” he fumbled for words. “Right.”</p><p class="western">“<span>Y</span>ou’re a snake all the time,” Aziraphale said, confused. “Just last <span>Tuesday</span> you were sleeping on the sofa.”</p><p class="western">“That’s different.”</p><p class="western">“<span>Y</span>ou’re not really an animal when you’re a serpent, any more than either of us is human, right now,” Aziraphale ventured.</p><p class="western">“I know,” Crowley growled, covering his face with his hand. M<span>isguided</span> moral concern about bestiality wasn’t remotely on Crowley’s radar, but it was difficult explaining to Aziraphale something he could hardly articulate to himself. “That’s not . . . <span>the part of myself I want to </span>give you.”</p><p class="western">Aziraphale frowned. “But, love, I want <em>all</em> your parts. <span>I</span>. That is . . .”</p><p class="western">Aziraphale looked so disconcerted by his unintentional double entendre, Crowley <span>burst </span>into laughter.</p><p class="western">“I meant . . .”</p><p class="western">“Quit while you’re ahead, angel,” Crowley told him, with affection. Also relief, since the conversation had been effectively derailed.</p><p class="western">However, he should have known better than to think the topic was buried.</p><p class="western">–--</p><p class="western">It started with books, set aside as if by happenstance in odd parts of the cottage, open to pages <span>filled with</span> nagas, feathered serpents, the Rod of Asclepius – serpents as positive symbols, guardians and healers.</p><p class="western">Crowley knew wh<span>ere</span> Aziraphale was g<span>oing</span>, but <span>feigned obliviousness</span>.</p><p class="western">After a week of general serpent cheerleading, th<span>ings shifted. Sensuality was the new theme, which if anything, left Crowley cringing harder. It didn’t help that the content grew steadily more blatant, until it reached flat-out erotica. Most of it serpent-on-human, but there was a range. Some items were . . . arresting. And there were a lot of them – too many to be plausible in any ordinary library, which meant Aziraphale had been thinking along these lines for a</span><span><span> while</span></span><span>, and was only now hoisting his freak flag openly.</span></p><p class="western">It was, Crowley had to admit, flattering. It also made him want to crawl under the sofa (without changing shape).</p><p class="western">Finally, one evening Crowley was paging with morbid curiosity through the latest offering, a book of vintage engravings that left nothing to the imagination, while mentally designing a new sign for Aziraphale’s bookshop (“A. Z. Fell and Co. – Purveyor of Fine Books, Rare Prophecies, and Nasty Snakefucking”) when Aziraphale breezed into the room, pretending he didn’t see Crowley and was only interested in the bookshelf on the far wall.</p><p class="western">
  <span>Crowley sighed and gave up. “Where do you </span>
  <span>
    <em>find</em>
  </span>
  <span> these?” he asked, closing the book.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>There’s quite the market for them, if you know where to look,” Aziraphale said, dropping his pretense that Crowley wasn’t there.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>And you’ve looked,” Crowley said, dryly. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but . . . it’s not </span><span><em>like</em></span><span> that.”</span></p><p class="western">Aziraphale, with folded hands and raised eyebrows, gave Crowley his full, “I’m listening,” pose. It was daunting, but Crowley forged ahead. He’d had time to formulate what he wanted to say, whether it would come out clearly or not.</p><p class="western">“<span>It’s not about being a snake, or an animal, or a demon, or that I don’t accept myself, or that I think </span><span><em>you</em></span><span> don’t accept me. It just . . . doesn’t feel right. When I put on scales, I’m there to cause trouble and break things. It’s the flesh version of my Fucking Shit Up jacket. There’s nothing </span><span><em>wrong</em></span><span> with it, but it doesn’t belong when we’re . . . together.” </span></p><p class="western">Aziraphale cocked his head. “Is that really how you see it?”</p><p class="western">“<span>Well, yeah, s’what I said, isn’t it?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Because it’s not what I see,” Aziraphale told him, walking to him, eyes gentle. “I’ve seen you be a protector, and a healer - in a terrible wig, no less - and a great, sleepy sofa cushion.” He wrinkled his nose at Crowley, teasing.</span></p><p class="western">“<span><em>You</em></span><span> did the healing that time.” Then: “You’re never gonna let me forget the wig, are you?”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>No, I’m not. Blond doesn’t suit you.” Aziraphale reached up to tidy Crowley’s hair, tucking a lock behind his ear - a now-familiar gesture, and the reason Crowley favored artfully-messy styles more than ever: it encouraged Aziraphale to fuss with them.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Suits </span><span><em>you</em></span><span>, though,” Crowley said, failing to be smooth, and swallowed, because Aziraphale had moved on to gently trace Crowley’s serpent mark with a fingertip.</span></p><p class="western"><span>Aziraphale smiled in a way that made Crowley tingle and trailed his hand down Crowley’s neck, slipping a finger under Crowley’s collar, hooking out the white gold chain that was usually there. White gold, not silver, because while silver didn’t </span><span><em>always</em></span><span> interfere with occult powers, it could. Crowley’d got the chain because it was Cool, and after it fell out of fashion, he kept it because he liked the tactile sensation of smooth, heavy links against his skin (</span><span><span>plus,</span></span> <span>it was Retro).</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>When he’d learned Aziraphale also liked it (a lot), there was no way Crowley was </span>
  <span>
    <em>ever</em>
  </span>
  <span> going to drop it from his wardrobe.</span>
</p><p class="western">Aziraphale gave the chain a twist around his finger, then a tug (gentle, always so incredibly gentle, but with strength behind it that made Crowley’s knees weak), pulling Crowley closer. He leaned forward, brushing cheeks, and whispered in Crowley’s ear, “Are you awake, love?”</p><p class="western">Crowley had a split second re-evaluation of his opinion that consent checks were inherently mood-killing “Yes. Awake. So very awake. Insomniac. Haven’t slept in ages.”</p><p class="western">“<span>You should go to bed, then,” Aziraphale told him, in a butter-soft voice, and Crowley wished, as he often did, that he’d handed all his assigned temptations to Aziraphale back in the day, because the ex-angel was so blessed </span><span><em>good</em></span><span> at it.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I think you’re right,” Crowley said, trying to be buttery back. Remembering the book sitting next to him on the table, he added in a more normal voice, “Um, no scales though.”</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Of course not, nothing you don’t want,” Aziraphale responded, also in his normal voice, before slipping back into Tempting Angel mode. “Come along, then.” He gave the chain another gentle tug, indicating the direction of the bedroom. Crowley went.</span></p><p class="western">–--</p><p class="western">Aziraphale’s lovemaking was often warm, comfortable, and domestic, since that was <span>his</span> general aesthetic, but underneath the tea, tartan, and fussiness, he was <span><em>made</em></span> of Love. Being reminded of that sometimes <span>resembled getting</span> hit by a supernova strapped to the front of a freight train.</p><p class="western">At least, that was the best simile Crowley could think of at the time, being distracted.</p><p class="western">What they were doing with their bodies, intense as it was, had nothing on the absolute blast of adoring metaphysical light that washed into and through Crowley, until he all but second-hand glowed himself. There was nothing to do but give in and experience it.</p><p class="western">Afterwards, <span>Crowley</span> was limp and warm; <span>he felt like a rag that had</span> been soaked and wrung out, but in a good way. Aziraphale spooned <span>soft</span> and solid against him, sword arm wrapped around Crowley’s waist, snow-white feathers spread over both of them like a living comforter.</p><p class="western">Surrounded by that warmth and protection, Crowley’s dreams didn’t have a chance. Sleep that night was deep, dark and peaceful.</p><p class="western">–--</p><p class="western">Life at <span>the cottage</span> <span>followed</span> familiar outlines for a while after that (serpent propaganda blissfully absent), until one day there was a request for Aziraphale’s help. In the village, old Mr. Collins’s cancer was getting the better of him, and he wanted to talk to someone about the impending End – but <em>not</em> Father Walder. Aziraphale got the <span>call</span> <span>partly</span> because of his rumored <span>former</span> occupation, and <span>partly</span> because he, like Mr. Collins, considered Father Walder a first-class wanker, and there was that for them to bond over.</p><p class="western">Aziraphale might be a retired angel but he still had the reflexes, and a personal sense of Responsibility, so he went to give Mr. Collins what reassurances he could.</p><p class="western">Crowley stayed home, and laid in preparations for tea. He <span>reckoned</span> Aziraphale would need it, and he was right.</p><p class="western">Both of them had been through far worse than end-of-life counseling for one much-loved man in a small, safe <span>village</span> – wars, plagues, and famines littered history. But Crowley knew small things could pull up larger darknesses, like a<span>n angler’s</span> fishhook drawing a Kraken out of the depths, and Aziraphale <span>returned</span> home <span>grim </span>and drained.</p><p class="western">He gratefully accepted tea, biscuits and Crowley’s affectionate tending, but none of it drove the shadows from his face, <span>or the grey from his eyes.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Let me take care of you,” Crowley told him, cupping the side of his face and letting the love he felt wrap around Aziraphale, coiling and sinuous. Dark, where Aziraphale’s love was light, and nowhere near as powerful – but also more specific, and, as a result, less taxed by being in a mortal world, full of mortal beings who were destined to leave.</span></p><p class="western">Aziraphale kissed the palm of Crowley’s hand, then let himself be pulled gently toward the bedroom.</p><p class="western">---</p><p class="western">As Crowley cradled Aziraphale in his embrace, on another plane he spun dark armored twists of himself around the central core of Aziraphale’s light, spikes and spines carefully outward, gentle as an occult heart could be, protective even though there was no protection against the sorrow that dimmed Aziraphale’s heart. Crowley would still try, would always try, and he poured that intent into his touch, his mouth, and his subtle self.</p><p class="western">Aziraphale sighed and gasped, absorbing Crowley’s love and protection with a desperate need. A protector by nature, but never protected – not until Crowley – not even my himself.</p><p class="western">
  <span>With a silken whisper, Crowley shook his wings free, cupping them over the bed, creating a soft space for just the two of them. It was better, but still not enough. Crowley’s intrinsic gift for sensing desires knew Aziraphale needed more: more touch, more healing, more Crowley. </span>
  <span>
    <em>Closer, love.</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">Breathing heavily Crowley levered up on his elbows. He was in and around and covering Aziraphale as much as he possibly could, but he still felt the urge to give more, turn himself inside-out with giving, what he’d spent so long wanting to do for Aziraphale and finally could. His metaphysical self curled and coiled, so near the surface now . . .</p><p class="western">“<span>I could be closer,” Crowley said, voice rough, “if I had scales.” </span></p><p class="western">Aziraphale looked at him with eyes gone summer-sky blue, and said, “Oh, yes, please . . .”</p><p class="western">That was all it took to tip the balance; Crowley’s wings pulled in and he slipped through the shapechange effortlessly, wrapping himself as fully around Aziraphale in the physical plane as he was in the metaphysical. It required a bit of improvising on the fly in terms of anatomy and physiology, but the joyous moan from Aziraphale as he ran his hands along Crowley’s scales made the extra Effort more than worthwhile.</p><p class="western">Aziraphale thrust up against Crowley’s new weight, and Crowley realized his in-place translation had resulted in both halves of his male anatomy erect and inside Aziraphale at once, which wasn’t serpentine SOP, but seemed to be working. Clearly, it wasn’t too much for Aziraphale, so Crowley went with it, bracing himself for thrusting, and rubbing his smooth, muscular belly against Aziraphale’s answering hardness.</p><p class="western">
  <span>It didn’t take Aziraphale long after that; within minutes he was arching in Crowley’s grip, crying out his name. Crowley had expected that, and constricted just enough for added support. He </span>
  <span>
    <em>didn’t</em>
  </span>
  <span> expect was to follow almost immediately after, his tweaked physiology gifting him with twin, simultaneous orgasms.</span>
</p><p class="western">His head dropped to Aziraphale’s chest, stunned by the double-barreled release.</p><p class="western">“<span>Oh, love, that was . . .” Aziraphale, at a loss for words, stroked Crowley gently, and Crowley flicked his tongue against Aziraphale’s sweat-damp skin, the closest he could get to peppering his beloved with affectionate kisses. “Thank you.”</span></p><p class="western">
  <span>Crowley hiss-laughed. “I ssshould thank you,” he said. “I didn’t know I could </span>
  <span>
    <em>do</em>
  </span>
  <span> that.” </span>
  <span>
    <em>Snakefucking, ftw</em>
  </span>
  <span>, he thought, giddy.</span>
</p><p class="western">“<span>You’re welcome,” Aziraphale said, and wiggled into a cozier position. “Would you stay like this for a bit? It’s very comforting.” He seemed delighted with his new, weighted Crowley-blanket.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>Of courssse.” Lounging was, after all, one of this shape’s best activities. “I’m a natural ssofa cusshion. After all.”</span></p><p class="western">Aziraphale laughed, spilling over with white light and love again. “Also a healer. And a protector, don’t forget that.”</p><p class="western">“<span>If you sssay so,” Crowley said, with the head-tilt that indicated an eyeroll when he wasn’t physically capable of one.</span></p><p class="western">“<span>I do,” Aziraphale told him, as if winning an argument.</span></p><p class="western">Crowley was, for once, happy to concede the victory.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p>
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